


If It Wasn't For Bad Luck...

by BlindSwandive



Series: Masquerade fills [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autofellatio, Bad Sex, Domestic Accidents, Hubris, Humor, M/M, Shower Sex, canon-typical alcohol use, canon-typical idiocy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 14:57:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive
Summary: For the fabulous SPN Masquerade 2018 prompt:Sam&Dean having a sexual misfortune of some kind. Breaking the bed, awkward cramp, one of them can’t get it up, one of them elbows the other in the face, you know the drill. It’s okay, though. They can laugh it off. 'Cause they in loooooooove!Four vignettes of Sam&Dean's unfortunate sexual endeavors.





	1. Drunk Enough to Kick Your Ass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetheartdean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/gifts).



"Dean, have you— _How_ much have you had to drink?" Sam asked, trying to keep the frustration down in his voice. His jaw was getting tired, and they were getting nowhere.

Maybe he couldn't keep his hard-on up, but Dean did still look like he was floating on a little cloud of bliss, from Sam's efforts. "Same 's usual," he mumbled, and Sam doubted that highly.

Suspicion struck, and Sam narrowed his eyes. "Did you masturbate this afternoon, already?"

"Jesus, Sam, cool the inquisition," Dean complained, rubbing his face, but the guilt was evident underneath.

"I told you—I've _told_ you," Sam repeated, "how many times? If you get drunk and jerk off to porn, there's no way I can get you off after that."

"Still feels good," Dean said sheepishly, pawing fondly at Sam's hair. 

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't really stay mad. He unfolded, shaking out his stiff knees. "Just give a guy a heads up. I'm happy to blow you for fun, but next time don't let me waste half an hour wondering what I'm doing wrong."

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean slurred, and Sam gathered him up by the elbow, dragging him from the chair to the bed. Dean tipped as soon as the backs of his legs hit the mattress. "Go down on you, if you want," Dean offered, a little shyly.

"Yeah, right," Sam said, and now it was fondness he was trying to keep muscled down in his voice. "Probably choke to death if you tried. Drunk idiot," he muttered, but Dean was grinning, and Sam was, too.

"You love it," Dean insisted, laughing sleepily.

"Yeah, not so much," Sam teased. Dean looked halfway to passed out, but there was something lovely and stupid and peaceful about him like that, and Sam felt a little overwhelmed with love for him.

"Well, there's one thing I can still do when you've already shot your wad," he said, climbing up onto the bed beside Dean. "Roll over."


	2. Anything You Can Do...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do not try this at home. At least not without consulting a medical professional or CYT.

"Tol' 'oo tho," Sam said, triumphantly.

Mostly Dean just wanted to keep watching this. Sam was beautiful and impossible. But what he said instead was, "Circus freak," and after a minute, "Can't be that hard…" because admiration and lust were harder to express than derision and oneupmanship. 

Sam uncurled slowly, like a pillbug, first letting his head relax down to the bed and then letting his hips rise away, the shiny head of his cock slipping free from his lips with a small pop. It wasn't like he'd been able to deep-throat himself, but even getting a couple inches in was more than Dean had ever seen achieved in real life. There was video, of course, but you never knew how much editing was going on there.

"It's not easy," Sam replied, in apparent disbelief, once he was relaxed and flat on his back again. He folded his hands behind his head and let one knee fall open, a posture of subtle boasting.

"Yeah, right," Dean said, because he was in too far to back down. His pulse was racing, though. He stripped off quickly, and laid down on the bed, parallel to Sam. "So what, you just roll up in Plough Pose and go to town?"

"So long as you've got a decent erection—" Sam began, but a look down told him that wasn't going to be a problem. He smiled, and there was a touch of hunger in it. "But be careful, Dean, people throw their backs out, wrench their necks…"

"Yeah, I know how not to break my own spine, Sam," Dean said dismissively, but tried to remember what he'd heard Lisa say about inversions; something about keeping your neck straight? Not turning your head side to side? He closed his eyes and prayed, though not to anyone in particular.

The first embarrassment came when he couldn't get his legs to launch up overhead. He made three good attempts and got closer each time, but he knew he wasn't in as good of shape as Sam, these days; the memory foam wasn't helping either, sucking him down and resisting his attempts to spring off the balls of his feet.

"Little help?" he asked, with as much dignity as he could, considering, and Sam sat up to oblige him. This time when he pushed his feet off and rocked his knees, Sam tucked a hand under the small of Dean's back to help him up and over.

The next embarrassment was that, where Sam had shown off by pushing up annoyingly gracefully into a shoulder stand, and then lowered his feet smoothly until they'd touched the bed somewhere off beyond his head, sliding out until he'd rolled his spine and ribs in enough to reach his prize, Dean had to settle for hanging midair, legs and back too tight to actually let his feet touch. He pedaled awkwardly, trying to convince his back half to loosen up.

"Should have warmed up first," Sam said, and Dean could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Shut up and push," Dean grumbled.

"You sure?" Sam asked, more soberly. "Dean, you gotta' be careful, you may just not be able to do it without hurting yourself…"

 _"Push,"_ Dean insisted, and Sam's big, broad palm settled on the center of his back and gently pushed.

Dean groaned, because at first the stretch felt so good that he thought he'd just make Sam do this every day for hours, just be his private yoga trainer and make him hurt _good._ Sam backed off immediately, though, maybe misreading it for injury. Anyway, Dean's toes had finally made contact with the bed behind him.

"Almost there," Dean said, optimistically. If it sounded a little strangled, well.

"I mean it, Dean, don't force it," Sam warned, the perpetual wet hen.

Dean ignored him and tried to tiptoe out a little further, bend his knees, the tip of his dick tantalizingly close to his lips.

"If I figure this out," Dean swore, "I'm never leaving this room."

The entire back plane of his body was singing with pain and tension. Everything was stretched too taut, too tight. He was sure if he could just lift his head, though, he'd close the gap.

With a lurch, he went for it.

The first thrilling swipe of the tip of his tongue over the tip of his dick was electric and heavenly. Dean started to laugh and crow, triumphant, as his head landed flat on the bed again. He hadn't actually got it _inside_ his mouth, but he was sure this was proof that he could make it with just a little more effort. He took a deep breath and braced himself for another reach.

Somewhere over the sound of his own cursing _("Shitshitsonofabitchgoddamn")_ and the screaming pain in his neck and midway down his spine, Dean could just make out Sam's sigh.

"…I'll call Cass."


	3. I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire

And then there were the burns. Christ, the burns.

Dean loved how much Sam loved Dean's cooking. Like, at this point going into the kitchen was all it took to get Dean hard, because he knew how Sam would look at him when Dean set a plate of something homemade in front of him, broke Sam out of his research with a tangible expression of nesting, of care, of love.

Sam almost always took the time to eat, first, but that yearning, needy look generally stuck around on his face long after his stomach was full. Dean remembered the line, "Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look," a lot of those times, but never said it out loud, because, yeah, he remembered it from a movie, but he was pretty sure it was Shakespeare, and he might let Sam see him mid-fuck, but he wasn't going to let Sam see him quote some old English dude.

Still. Lean and hungry was Sam all over.

Problem was, Sam had started to realize how much Dean loved how much Sam loved Dean's cooking. And for however smart Sam was, he sometimes got just as stupid when it came to sex as Dean did (which, Dean would be the first to admit, was pretty damn stupid). If Sam happened to catch sight of Dean sneaking down the stairs, or tying on the simple, masculine grease shield Dean refused to call an apron, it was anyone's guess as to whether dinner would get made at all, or whether it would get made but languish on the counter until it was cold, or get forgotten on the stove or in the oven until it was burned long past edible.

And Dean loved that— _loved_ it when Sam couldn't stand to wait to fuck, had to have it right then, whatever else was going on, damn the torpedos.

Sometimes, though, Sam didn't know what was still hot.

One time, Sam had butted so aggressively up against Dean at the stove that Dean had had to brace himself to keep from going into the boiling pasta. (He had braced himself against the side of the pot.) Instead of blowing Dean, like Sam had been promising in a filthy, eager whisper in his ear, he wound up literally blowing on his hand for a while instead. He'd been so damn cute, though, so mortified by the whole thing and practically ready to kiss his booboo, childlike, that Dean had started goading him. "Go on, Sammy, lick it. Know you want to."

Sam had muttered, "Yeah, you're fine," and dropped Dean's hand to go find a salve. 

Another time, Sam had cornered Dean while he was carving a roast, and was even letting Dean make really bad jokes about his hot, wet meat without rolling his eyes. Dean knew he was in for a good night when there was a miracle like that. Or else a really bad one, if the world-famous Winchester luck held.

Sam had slid one of those huge, amazing hands down along Dean's arm (the one that was bracing the cutting board, not the one holding the knife, because neither of them was _that_ stupid), and Dean had had to close his eyes and hold his breath to not lose his mind. He took enough time and care to set down the knife, and even to push the board further from the edge of the counter so they wouldn't wind up wearing the meat, but it didn't occur to him to warn Sam that there were still hot pots and pans everywhere. When Sam had drawn him into a rough make-out session that promised to turn into an even rougher screw against a wall, enough of their collective braincells shut down that they stopped really paying attention to the surfaces they were bumping up against. Sam had spent a sulky hour under a cool shower trying to keep the angry red welt from the side of the roasting pan from blistering over his ribs. 

After the fourth or fifth time it happened, Sam just stormed out of the bunker and didn't come back for almost an hour, until he'd found the last living Aloe Vera plant for twenty miles. It was a pathetic specimen, but Sam still found a fat enough spike to slice open for goop to rub into Dean's palm. 

After feeling how slimy and greasy it was, how blissfully cool and soothing, Dean had tried to revive the evening's plans with some sly remark about figuring out just how many uses the inside of the cactus had.

Sam had offered him one of his fingers, slick with the ooze, and Dean had been fooled by Sam's wicked expression into sucking it into his mouth. And, well, after that he'd had to chase Sam around the bunker for another forty minutes trying to get him back for it. Bitter as earwax.

And what was worse, the aloe turned out to get sticky, fast.


	4. And I Wonder... Who'll Stop the Rain?

Shower sex turned out to be one of those things that just worked better on paper. Like roleplaying, or 69ing, or threesomes.

Dean had tried to explain it to Sam—all the things he'd personally had go wrong, all the things that hadn't gone wrong for him yet but that he knew could—but Sam had been bullheaded and assumed Dean had just been doing something wrong, before. Served him right, he supposed, for letting his ego about his brain blind him to how strong Dean's practical intelligence could be. And Dean's information about sex was often highly practical.

It had just sounded so _hot._

All those years in cramped motel rooms, Sam had lived with that secret thrill every time Dean had emerged from the shower—damp and clean, wrapped in a universally disappointing towel, Dean had looked positively edible, gleaming and bright. There were those perfect droplets of water clinging to his pretty eyelashes like tiny stars; drips down his back from his wet hair made the muscles in his back twitch unconsciously, putting Sam in mind of gleaming racehorses quivering with sweat after a hard run (only without the smell). And since Dean had a tendency to work up a pretty powerful reek of his own, when he'd been working, the promise that Sam would have gotten to taste the cleanest and freshest possible version of Dean's body if he'd given in and licked him right out of the shower had always filled him with a quiet longing.

And Sam, who most days felt more like an ogre than some kind of sex god, however Dean might look at him, thought he was at his best in running water, too. His hair was sleek and shiny, for one, and for reasons he had yet to establish with any scientific rigor, his eyes were usually at their bluest then. And skin just looked _good_ with water sluicing over it. So did muscles, and even Sam could usually admit his were pretty good, so long as he kept the work up. Dean seemed to like them, anyway, if those long looks he laid over Sam's ass when he thought Sam wouldn't notice were any indication. 

So Sam had decided they were going to try it, whatever Dean's misgivings.

Dean had been pretty firm about it, but Sam knew what Dean's actual willpower in these matters looked like in real time. He waited for Dean to head off to the showers, and then dashed to his room to gather the necessaries before taking a deep breath and heading in after him.

Sam stripped off his outer layers of shirts, his shoes, and his socks, but left on the white undershirt and dark cargo pants. When he crept into the room, Dean didn't notice him (he had soap in his eyes and was singing, loud but almost on key, like he did when there was no one around he could embarrass by doing it especially badly). Sam was practically in the water with him before Dean realized he was there and started to warn him off with one pointing index finger. 

But then Sam was crowding him under the spray, hot water making his clothes start to stick to him and his shirt go translucent. Dean's protests died on his lips, eyes going wide and shocked, almost innocent-looking. His dick was less taciturn, and expressed its approval in no uncertain terms.

Sam had been pretty sure something like that would happen. 

Years ago, there'd been one of those odd, offhand comments people never think you're going to remember. Lying in the dark, too tired to do anything about it, Dean had told Sam about something he'd seen online, that day, playing it for casual like it was a meme or a half-interesting news story. He'd described how the older guy was showering, minding his own business, and his hot young boyfriend had climbed in after him, still in his work clothes, and got down on his knees. Dean hadn't said anything about liking it, hadn't seemed to say it apropos of anything, in fact, but there was an intensity underlying his tone that told Sam it was playing on a reel behind Dean's eyes. He'd never mentioned it again, never even sent Sam the link, and he'd insisted what a bad idea shower sex was any time Sam had tried to bring it up afterwards. But Sam had a pretty good idea it would have stayed with him.

"Sammy," Dean said, uneasily, but he'd rinsed the soap from his face and let Sam into his arms, cursed appreciatively when Sam slid down along his body to his knees. Sam buried his nose in the thick hair there, so much darker than the hair on his head, and breathed him in—or, well, tried, but he got some water up his nose and had to cough for a moment. He persevered, though, swiping his tongue up Dean's dick and staring intently up at Dean as he did. 

Well—tried to. He wound up more squinting up at Dean through the overspray. Sam wiped some of the water clear of his face and backed up on his knees, pulling Dean along to find a better position—one where Dean would block the spray from getting directly into any of Sam's orifices.

The downside of that, though, was that once Sam was out of the hot spray of the water, his clothes started to chill very quickly. The knees of his pants felt rough and heavy, not the best cushion for the tile floor beneath them.

Still, Sam would make this work. He could stand being cold for a few minutes. Plus, Dean would probably enjoy seeing Sam's nipples go hard through his shirt, or at least enjoy making fun of him for it.

It was still a bit of a rude awakening when Sam realized Dean hadn't actually washed, yet, and that that good, mild, wet smell he wanted—the one where there was just Dean, made a little stronger by the dampness, maybe, but clean and not overbearing—was not yet to be had. Must have started with his hair, Sam realized, and made a mental note to wait a little longer, next time (because at that point he hadn't been convinced there shouldn't be a next time). He got back up to his feet; he'd put up with the discomfort of being cold, of his shirt starting to sag uncomfortably and his pants feeling like sandbags, but there was no reason to lick Dean clean before the soap had at least started the job. Anyway, soaping him up could be fun, and would give Sam a chance to get warmed back up in the water.

"Shit," Dean cursed, when a part of Sam's pant leg that was still chilled brushed over his shin. "You should probably get out of those," he said, and Sam fancied he sounded a little regretful. He grinned.

"Yeah, they're getting pretty uncomfortable," Sam admitted, and started stripping off, tossing the soaked articles well out of the way with a wet _thwock._ Dean ushered him in under the spray to thaw, and this time Sam did manage to kiss him lazily without taking on any unnecessary water, so that was a plus.

It was fun, then, for a while; they took turns soaping each other up, and Dean even humored Sam by using a washcloth, rather than just rubbing the bar over his skin. Sam tried to turn the water up a couple degrees, since he usually liked his showers a little hotter than Dean did, and only got a little scalded in the process of adjusting it (which was par for the course), so he considered that a victory, too. Dean even tried to comb his hair for him, but since he didn't know how to cope with the tangling power of long, fine hair, he more or less made a rat's nest out of it. Still, it was a sweet effort. 

When they were both thoroughly clean and pink from the heat, and the room was getting warm all over from the steam, Sam got back down on his knees. He made sure to give his meaningful look to Dean on the way down, this time, rather than get his eyes any redder than they already felt by doing it from the floor. Dean was definitely interested—especially after the very thorough soaping up Sam had given him—but there was still that barely suppressed wariness about him.

Sam wrapped his hands around Dean's hips, gripping his ass fondly, and dipped to catch Dean's dick with his mouth, hands-free. It went pretty well for a little while, though finding an angle where the water wouldn't splash his face any time Dean moved too far was impossible, and the tile was just as brutal on his bare knees as it had been in pants. And Dean was holding onto Sam's head for balance, because he was just a little too far from the wall to lean on it, and that wasn't exactly what Sam felt his hair and ears were best suited for. And, for no reason he could make mesh with what he remembered from his Physics or Chemistry courses, it seemed somehow like the wetter Dean was, the less slippery he was. Whatever part of washing made you "squeaky clean," he mused, might be imparting friction. Or else something to do with a vacuum being created between the surfaces…

"Dude, you gonna' get back to that at some point?" Dean asked, strained, above him. 

Sam blinked water out of his eyes and wondered just how long he'd been lost in that train of thought with his mouth full. He leaned back to let Dean slip free. (It was probably feeling like a too-dry handjob, anyway, what with the way his lips and Dean's skin were dragging and sticking; Dean probably wouldn't be missing it.)

"Sorry," Sam said, a little sheepish. "Got a better idea," he promised, hoping this time he really did. He got back up, rubbing at the odd raised lines the grout had made in his skin, and went to rifle through the pockets of his discarded pants.

Water might not make good lube, but lube would, of that much he was certain. Sam waved the condom packet at Dean promisingly, over his shoulder, and palmed the old travel-sized bottle of lube he'd dug up from a duffel bag.

Inexplicably, Dean looked _more_ wary, now, rather than less. A tiny part of Sam's brain suggested to him that that was a warning sign he should be paying attention to, now, but most of the rest of it said something smart like, 'What could go wrong?' and recalled how, even if water-based lube started to dry up, a little spit revived it and stretched its lifespan. Hell, the water around them might even make it work better, right?

Dean looked almost pained when Sam rejoined him under the water, wrapping his arms snug around Dean's neck and pulling him into a kiss. But the part Sam had been most right about was how little Dean would be willing to put his foot down with Sam naked in his arms, tongue down his throat. Sam fumbled blindly to turn the water up a tiny bit hotter, since they'd adjusted to the temperature. That, or the hot water was starting to run a little low. Whichever. They'd never run out of hot water before; the place was meant to accommodate a handful of men at any given time, so the water heater (wherever it was) had to be substantial. He wasn't worried about that part. And at least this time there was no scalding. 

Sam reached the hand that wasn't holding the condom and lube down in between their bodies, bending his knees a little to get their dicks together in his grip. That too-rough dragging feeling was still threatening, but he took it as lightly as he could, and anyway, it didn't take long for them both to be stiff as iron again; the hot water felt like it was inside his bones, leaving his body loose and limber and eager, and Dean really was gorgeous wet.

He broke from the kiss only because he was slightly more willing in that moment to let go of Dean's mouth than Dean's dick. Leaning his chin over Dean's shoulder, Sam bit the corner of the condom packet and started to tear.

The corner came off in his teeth (because apparently even inanimate objects knew better than Sam at this point). He sighed, turned it, and tried again, from well in the middle, and this time he was able to get the latex free and the tip pinched between his fingertips.

Sam let go of his warm hold around Dean's neck so he could bring the condom down between them. He was starting to nestled it over his own tip when Dean managed to mount an actual protest.

"No—nuh-unh," he insisted, grabbing Sam's hand. "If you're stupid enough to need to try this, you're catching, buddy."

That—that part did make Sam feel a little wary. He tried very, very hard to keep it from his face. "Sure," he said, all invented bravado, and let Dean twist out of the water long enough to dab a little lube inside the condom before sliding it down his own length. Dean gave him a cursory kiss before taking Sam's elbow and turning him until he was face first against the wall.

It was still cooler than comfortable, but that much Sam found he didn't mind. There was something kind of exciting about the wires crossing in his nerves while the heat poured down his back and his front slipped and chilled. He wished he could be looking at Dean, but he didn't really want to lie down on the floor, so he settled for craning his neck to get slivers of Dean out of the corner of his eye. It was still a good view.

Dean nudged his knees a little further apart, and Sam obliged, shifting them wider until his ass would be low enough for Dean to get inside him in a more meaningful way. (Their forays into wall sex had always been more successful when Dean was the one hugging plaster.) Sam hummed contentedly when Dean meshed against him, closer than a second skin, and fumbled to get lubricated fingers inside him.

At first, it seemed like Sam's assessment of how the lube would perform in water was spot on. Nothing could be slicker than Dean's fingers in that moment; everything was silk and glass and pure, frictionless ease. And Sam had been spending enough time riding Dean's dick lately that it wasn't going to take much work to make room for him, anyway. When Dean slipped his fingers out, Sam wasn't exactly sure why he was crowding so low up against Sam's ass to slick the outside of the condom, but when Dean slid his dick up the back of Sam's balls, over his perineum, and in, Sam didn't care anymore, and just splayed out his fingers and gripped with his toes and thrilled to it.

Dean reached aside to knuckle cursorily over the soap before doing anything else, probably for Sam's benefit (Sam hadn't exactly made a secret of his feelings about hygiene when any contact with the ass was concerned). It wouldn't be enough to really take care of it, but it was a start, so Sam appreciated it. And anyway, it meant Dean's hand was slippery with foam when he fisted over Sam's grateful dick, slow and easy.

Sam lightly clenched his muscles on Dean in encouragement, and Dean let out a quiet huff against his back, squeezing Sam tightly around the middle with his free arm, still clutching the lube in that fist. And for a glorious moment, Sam felt vindicated, a little drunk on the heady pleasure of a fantasy fulfilled.

When Dean started to rock his hips up into Sam's, he was actually almost _too_ slick. There was something to be said for just enough resistance to wake up the nerves, after all. But that got better quickly.

Very, very quickly.

It seemed like Dean hadn't pumped out and in more than a couple of times before the dark-ice-in-the-road gliding evened out into just that perfect amount of friction, and Sam was high as a kite on it. He couldn't get his hips right to get anything going for his prostate, but he loved the feeling of Dean making way in him anyway, the overload on the nerve endings at the very edge of him, and the dull, delicious ache when Dean reached as far as he could inside. Sam was already fantasizing about that cat-got-the-cream satisfaction ahead, the way Dean heaved with his entire body when he tried to catch his breath after the really good sex, and the way he groaned when Sam gave him one of those looks, after, all _Sammy, you are gonna' be the death of me, I swear._

Sam realized he was grinning, and didn't even care that he probably looked a little dumb smiling with his face mashed against the wall.

But then Dean had to give up on jerking him, because the water spilling down the front of him had washed away all of the soap and Dean must have realized it was starting to feel like an Indian burn (and Sam tried not to get too distracted trying to figure out what a not culturally-insensitive term for that would be). And then it was starting to feel like that on the inside, too, the lube washing away with every splash of water that got between them, like it had no more staying power than the soap. Less, maybe, since the water had been hitting Sam's dick a lot more than it was hitting Dean's.

"Dean," Sam said, a little pleading, when it really started to hurt.

"Shit," Dean mumbled, and paused on an out-stroke, letting go of Sam's waist to get the lube bottle back between them. Sam could just hear the faint click of the cap over the water, and Dean must be contorted fairly oddly, because his chest was pressing low on Sam's back even as his hips were hovering back.

Blocking the water, Sam realized all at once. Dean was trying to keep the lube from washing off before he could even get it inside.

…Which suggested Dean knew full well that it had an escape plan in these scenarios.

Sam tried not to feel too disappointed by that realization. At least Dean was gamely trying to mitigate the problem. Embarrassment made that tenderness on Dean's part a little painful, but Sam opted for gratitude and tried to make an encouraging noise of some kind when Dean eased back inside of him.

It took a moment for the slipperiness to spread again, but when it did, Sam felt some of the tension go out of his shoulders. He was a little raw inside, but the cool lubricant was soothing, and Dean's arms were wrapped around him again, and Sam's erection was reviving. All was well.

Except the boom and bust cycle of too-slick to something's-going-to-tear-soon was replayed, only a fraction more gradually than the first time. And that happened again, and then again, and then again, until Dean dropped the little bottle on the floor, either because he was giving up or it was empty, Sam wasn't sure.

Disappointment was rising in his gorge like sickness. He wanted to stamp his feet and throw a fit.

He managed to just sigh, instead, defeated. Dean stilled behind him.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean said, and Sam was grateful at least that there didn't seem to be an 'I told you so' forthcoming. Which was a bit of a miracle, with as much as Dean loved 'I told you so's. But Dean just gave him a warmer squeeze around the middle and wriggled himself down and out of Sam as carefully as he could. 

The condom seemed more interested in sticking to Sam than to Dean, which was mortifying, but Dean took care of that, too, tugging it free and throwing it aside before winding Sam up in another hug. Sam pulled the soap from the wall holder and gathered Dean's hands up in his own, at least enjoying being held, and the unexpected intimacy of their hands entwining as Sam washed their hands together.

"Was super hot you coming in here in your clothes," Dean admitted, almost quietly enough that the sound of the water would drown it out. Sam knew better than to crow about it, though, considering the self-restraint Dean must be exercising at the moment. He just bumped Dean back a little and turned their hands out against his own belly to let the soap wash away from their fingers.

"What do you say we towel off and take this somewhere more hospitable?" Dean asked, and Sam had to grudgingly admit that Dean's ideas—where sex and cooking were concerned, if nowhere else—were generally better than his.

"Okay," he said, but lingered in the water.

Until the temperature dropped rapidly, of course. They fell apart like a card house, and Sam couldn't even get all the way out of the water, because with his luck, today, of course there was still one spot on the back of his balls where the lube was still hanging on, and he'd just be back in here in an hour trying to get it off if he didn't deal with it now.

"Let's never try that again," Sam said when they ran for bed, wrapped in robes and extra towels and shivering, covered in goosebumps. Dean didn't say anything, but Sam was pretty sure he caught a smug little smile before the blankets came over them both like a cocoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: Don't think you can escape the pitfalls of water-based lube in this situation by switching to silicone or oil-based lube. Or, well, you can--you just open up new ones as you do, like applying the slipperiest thing in the world to the floor of an already slippery shower. Be safe, folks.


End file.
